


Museum

by Jennie_D



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Modern Westeros, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: A tall man with a neatly trimmed red beard stood a few feet away. He was looking at Jon curiously, like he couldn’t quite place him.The beard looked odd short. Bizarrely, Jon felt it should be longer.The man spoke again, in a voice that seemed too quiet.“Have we met before?”
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 29
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

Jon dashed in quickly out of the rain. He lowered his jacket hood and caught his balance as wet shoes slid a little on the old marble floor. He almost wanted to shake out his dripping long hair, like Ghost would after being caught in a downpour. But the severe faced museum guard by the door was glaring at him, and Jon suspected she’d disapprove.

He had no idea why he’d decided to visit the National History Institute today. He’d lived in Wintertown for much of his life, but rarely visited the tourist sites. He was pretty sure he hadn’t stepped foot in this building since a class trip when he was fourteen. 

But he’d been lying on the couch, scratching Ghost behind the ears and half watching some game show. An ad for a new museum exhibit came on during the commercial break. And suddenly Jon felt it was a decent way to spend a rainy weekend morning. He had no plans. He might as well get some culture in, maybe try to sketch a bit, rather than laze around doing nothing.

Biking here made him question himself, wonder why he was so swayed by a tv ad that he’d subject himself to such bad weather. But once he stepped into the grand old building, once he stared up at the imposing columns in the entryway, a sense of surety settled over Jon. This was a good choice. After all, when he’d last been here as a child, he’d spent so much time laughing with Robb that he hadn’t actually given the exhibits much attention.

Jon took off his glasses and tried to wipe the raindrops off using his semi-dry undershirt. It mostly just smeared the water around, but it was better than nothing. He checked his bag, luckily his sketchbook seemed mostly dry. Jon peeled the wallet out of his back pocket and bought a ticket, shaking his head no when the teller asked him if he wanted to purchase a guided audio tour. He’d rather go at his own pace.

He felt a calm settle over him as he entered the main exhibit hall. Jon let himself wander, drifting through twisting hallways and hushed rooms. Occasionally, he’d get a flash of a long buried memory. He’d argued with Theon near this ancient Quartheen mosaic. He and Robb had raced around these massive statues from Yi-Ti and gotten yelled at by a teacher. 

Jon smiled. He should call Robb his afternoon, they hadn’t spoken in a few weeks. And he supposed it might be good to check in with Theon as well; Jon didn’t even remember the last time he’d actually heard Theon’s voice.

Soon, Jon reached the wing of the museum dedicated specifically to Northern history. A massive carving of a Stark sigil hung above the entryway. Jon’s mouth twisted a bit looking at it.

It was always strange to remember that his cousins were connected to an ancient, important family. That Uncle Ned had to add his signature to any new excavations at the Winterfell ruin because he technically had a claim to the land. Hells, if they’d all been born a couple hundred years ago, Robb would be heir to a throne. He’d be _in charge_ of things. The concept was downright ridiculous, completely disconnected from their lives in every way. 

Jon walked through the hall, footsteps echoing on the floor. As he looked at artifacts trapped behind glass cases, he felt an odd solemnity settle over him. These objects had belonged to people who lived here, died here. 

He stopped in front of a case of weaponry; swords and shields and axes hundreds of years old. Jon pulled out his sketchbook. Something about this case was intriguing, and he wanted to capture it. But rather than putting pencil to paper, Jon found himself simply staring. Leaning in close.

One sword in particular drew his eye, a weathered long piece with a white pommel carved in the shape of a wolf. He paused in front of it for long time, staring at how the steel rippled.

A chill traveled up his spine. His fingers flexed.

He bent in closer to read the placard. 

_Valyrian steel, forged c. 200 BC. Excavated near Hardhome in 745 AC. Some historians believe the unusual carved pommel identifies this sword as Longclaw, an heirloom of House Mormont which was once used by King Jon Snow “The Bastard King” (reigned 303 AC - 305 AC)_

The chill in Jon’s spine deepened. He felt frozen, felt numb, felt -

“Excuse me?”

A polite voice forced Jon from his thoughts. He flinched, spun, searching for the source of the sound.

A tall man with a neatly trimmed red beard stood a few feet away. He was looking at Jon curiously, like he couldn’t quite place him. 

The beard looked odd so short. Bizarrely, Jon felt it should be longer.

The man spoke again, in a voice that seemed too quiet. 

“Have we met before?”


	2. Chapter 2

It took Jon a long moment to find his voice. 

His first instinct was to say  _ I don’t think we've met _ but something about the man struck a chord deep within him. 

The way this strange man held himself, the broadness of his shoulders, the blueness of his eyes...Jon could swear he’d seen him half a hundred times before. But then Jon’s eyes would fall on his neatly trimmed hair or grey-green raincoat and sensible boots and the feeling would vanish. 

His mind seemed caught, trapped in an endless circle of knowing and not knowing. So finally, he just said the only thing that made sense.

“I’m not sure.” 

The familiar stranger dipped his head, smiled a bit sheepishly. “Sorry, I just - I just felt I’d seen you before.”

He moved to turn away, and Jon was suddenly desperate to keep talking.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice a touch too loud for this room heavy with quiet. Jon could practically feel the disapproving eyes of a museum guide in the corner burn through him.

But the large man turned back toward him, so it was worth it.

Jon realized he didn’t actually have a plan for what to say next. He cleared his throat. “You uhh, seemed familiar to me too. We probably have met before. You live in town?”

“No. I’m from the territories, up in Nightrun. This is my first time in Wintertown, thought I’d take advantage of the rain and see some indoor sights.”

“Oh,” Jon replied, a bit bewildered. “I’ve never been up to the territories.” 

He paused again, racking his brain, trying to place this man. Could feel the stranger's eyes skating over him, trying to do the same.

“Do you know Robb Stark, maybe Ned Stark? Sometimes they do business up in-”

But the man was already shaking his head. 

Jon huffed. The stranger laughed a bit, and stuck his hand out.

“While we try to figure this out, I’m Tormund,” he offered. 

Jon smiled in answer and shook the offered hand. His skin was warm. A sense of calm settled over him. 

“I’m Jon Snow.”

“Ah,” Tormund said, nodding over towards the placard Jon had just been reading. “Like the king.”

Jon flushed deeply. He wasn’t sure why. “I suppose,” he said, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “Though it’s not exactly an uncommon name.”

Tormund laughed again, a bit louder this time. It sounded comforting, sounded right. “True enough. Snows in this part of the country are as thick as well...snow.”

Jon smiled a bit. “When I was in school, there were three other Snows in a class of eighteen. Could get confusing.”

“A book came out last year that studied the old baseborn names. Even though they haven’t been used in the traditional way since inheritance law ended, each part of the country still has lots of people who use the region based surnames. It’s interesting.”

“Why?”

Tormund shrugged. “Mostly because it means that even with trains and cars and airplanes, lots of people still live where their ancestors did.”

He moved his hands a lot as he spoke. Jon found he liked watching them. Tormund caught his eyes again, and for a moment Jon was lost.

“Do you know much about him? This King Snow?”

Jon shook himself before answering. “History was never really my subject.”

“If it’s who I’m thinking of, he’s tied up in a lot of legends and mystical stuff. No one knows what’s true and what’s not. You know, the Long Night, dead rising, that kind of thing.”

“Oh well, I do know something about the rising dead,” Jon replied.

“You do?”

“I love horror movies.”

Tormund grinned, “Well, maybe I’ll take you out to one while I’m in town.”

It occurred to Jon suddenly that he was flirting. He hadn’t flirted with a man since...gods when was the last time he had flirted with a man? But this didn’t feel awkward, didn’t feel like constant effort to keep up. It felt  _ easy. _

He smiled and ran a hand through his still damp curls. “I’d like that,” he said quietly. “Or maybe we could go around this museum together and you could tell me more about old dusty kings.”

Tormund laughed again. The sound rang in the air. The guide in the corner was definitely glaring now, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Are you a historian? You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

Now it was the big man’s turn to blush. “No I’m just...I’m a roofer. But I listen to lots of books on tape. Gives me something else to focus on while I’m working.”

Jon nodded, understanding. “I wish I could focus on something else while working. I’m in retail, and customers are fucking constant. I always just end up counting the hours until I can go home and sketch.”

“Sketch? Are you an artist?”

“Not really. I didn’t go to school for it or anything. I wanted to but...well it didn’t work out.”

Tormund nodded. He gestured at the sketchbook tucked under Jon’s arm. “Do you mind if I look?”

Jon was a bit protective of his work lately. He knew it wasn’t terribly good, he’d been teased for it by Theon many times. He usually shrugged off even Robb and Arya when they asked to see something new. But somehow, this felt safe. 

He handed the sketchbook over.

As Tormund flipped through it, Jon felt anxiety sink into his bones. His fingers twitched. Why did he care so much what this stranger thought of his work?

Tormund’s flipping paused. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a long moment. Jon moved to his side to see what he was staring at. 

It was a simple unfinished figure sketch, a tall broad shouldered man in furs. Jon had done it a few days ago in a fit of insomnia after waking from an unremembered dream. He didn’t know why Tormund seemed so fixed on it; it was an incredibly rough sketch. The figure didn’t even have a face.

“If that’s your favorite, I think that may speak poorly of my skills,” Jon said, trying to joke Tormund out of this strange quiet. 

It worked, the man shook himself and shot Jon a bright smile. 

“You’re good,” he said simply, closing the sketchbook and handing it back over. “I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but even I can tell you’re good.”

“Glad you like them,” Jon replied, trying to sound confident. 

“If you ever want a subject, I’d love to pose for you.”

Fuck, Jon was blushing again. “Are you serious, or is that a line?”

“Believe me, you’ll know when I’m giving you a line. I’m told my attempts at innuendo are not subtle.”

Now Jon was the one laughing, louder than he intended. The guide, it seemed, had had enough. She stomped their way.

“Gentlemen, may I remind you that other people are trying to enjoy this exhibit?”

Jon rushed to apologize, but Tormund held up a hand. “Sorry about that,” he said to the guide. “We’ll take it somewhere else.”

She nodded, and returned to her tour group, throwing them one last glare for good measure. 

Jon would usually feel desperately embarrassed, but somehow he felt perfectly fine. Something in Tormund’s smile grounded him.

“What do you say we grab a coffee at the museum cafe?” The large man’s blue eyes danced.

Jon grinned. “I’d like that.”


	3. Chapter 3

They sat in the museum coffee long after their overpriced coffees were empty. Long after the dregs clinging to the bottom of the cups had gone cold. They spoke of nothing and everything; Jon’s cousins, Tormund’s trip around Westeros, their favorite music, favorite books, the territories, the North. Tormund seemed skilled at turning even the most mundane occurrences into long compelling stories, and Jon more than once found himself spitting out the free cafe water in laughter. 

Eventually, they came back to the topic of the museum itself, and Jon found himself listening to Tormund’s half remembered account of his accidental kingly namesake.

“Don’t quote me on this, because I could be mixing up my historical figures again. But I’m fairly certain that after the Bastard King murdered his lover, no one knows what happened to him. He vanished off into the mist, never to be heard of again.”

Jon rolled his eyes, smiling. “I thought the ice monsters sounded far fetched, and now you're telling me this man was some kind of ghost?”

“I’m not saying he’s a ghost, I’m saying he vanished.”

“Bit of an anticlimactic end if you ask me.” Jon traced the rim of his coffee cup over and over again, looked up into Tormund's blue eyes. “Are there any theories?”

“Well, some historians think he died in battle and the whole ‘murder of the queen’ thing is an embellishment,” Tormund began. “Others think he was sent to prison or the Wall and spent the rest of his life there; apparently some documents have been found that lend weight to that theory. And other people think he disappeared past the Wall and chose to live with the tribes up there.”

“I have to say,” Jon said, grinning. “That final option seems substantially better than the others.”

Tormund smiled back. “It is beautiful up there. Wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a life. Next time you’re in Hardhome or Nightrun, let me know. I’ll take you hiking, show you the most beautiful views you’ve ever seen.”

Jon bit his lip, glanced down with a soft smile. The thought of traveling with this man was...oddly appealing.

_ What are you doing, you barely know him.  _

He tried to redirect the conversation. “‘The Bastard King.’ Bit of a rude nickname, isn’t it?”

Tormund shrugged. “It wasn’t like it was exactly typical for bastards to become royals.”

“Still,” Jon continued. “It’s not very nice.”

Tormund laughed a little, shifted back in his chair. Jon found himself just staring at the man. Taking him in. 

It was odd how comfortable Jon was around this man. How he found himself attracted to not just Tormund’s most obvious features, like his shock of red hair or broad shoulders, but his subtler ones, like the curve of his nose and the strength in his fingers. Jon could imagine how strong those fingers would be, could almost feel them in his - 

Jon flushed and coughed a little. He needed to get control of himself. 

“You know,” he said, trying again to focus on something besides his incredible attraction to the man sitting across from him, “I suppose technically I’m a bastard by the traditional Westerosi standards.”

The moment the words left Jon’s lips, his mouth twisted a bit. What was he doing? This was very personal territory he was drifting into.

But Tormund looked intrigued. “Really?”

Jon found himself nodding. “My uh...my mother was part of a big important old family, then had me out of wedlock and decided to take the Snow name.”

Tormund frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “That’s...unusual. In modern times.”

Jon cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. She was...she was pretty young when she had me. My - the guy she was with was a lot older. Was rich, important, had a fancy last name, everything. He wasn’t...he -.” Jon paused, trying to collect himself. “After everything I think she...I just think she wanted to distance herself. From that whole world. Didn’t even talk to her own family for a long time.”

Tormund’s eyes were wide, sympathetic. He reached over, covered Jon’s hand with his own. Gave it a squeeze. 

Tears were pricking at the corners of Jon’s eyes. He rarely talked about any of this, usually tried his best to bury it deep. But somehow, now, he kept talking.

“She was a great mum. She could make fun out of anything. Gods, I remember she’d take me dumpster diving behind big retail chains sometimes. Called it ‘hunting for treasure.’ Once we found like 20 boardgames, still wrapped. We went home and we spent a week playing every single one. It was...she…” Jon looked down, falling silent.

Tormund sat quietly, waited patiently for Jon to continue. Stroked his thumb gently over the back of Jon’s hand. 

Jon breathed out low. “She died when I was fourteen. After that I went to live with my uncle’s family, my cousins. I knew them pretty well, mom and Uncle Ned had reconciled years before. But still, their lives were pretty different from mine. It was a lot to get used to.”

He wiped a hand over his eyes. Gods, what the hell was he doing? He barely knew this man. “Sorry, I don’t know what-”

“No, no,” Tormund cut in. “It’s alright. I’m sorry that happened to you. I grew up an orphan myself, I know how rough that can be on someone.”

Jon blinked away lingering tears and refocused on the man in front of him. “You did?”

Tormund nodded. “Spent too much of my childhood in group homes. It was hard. But the other kids there got me through it. A lot of them were younger than me, needed someone to be there for them. So I was. And they were there for me in turn.”

Jon squeezed Tormund’s hand, trying to return the comfort he’d just been offered. 

“That’s one of the reasons I first got into all this history shit. I wasn’t exactly a big reader at first growing up. I preferred hiking, wrestling, mostly outdoor shit. But I spent so much time telling them old ghost stories about the old North and the Land of Always Winter. And they kept wanting more stories, so I had to keep reading.”

Tormund’s eyes were lost in memory, and a warm fond smile settled on his lips. Jon found himself smiling in turn. “I’m glad you had each other.”

The smile grew. “I still talk to most of them. My sister Ygritte was supposed to come with me on this trip, but work held her up last minute.”

“Wish I could have met her.”

Tormund barked out a laugh. “She doesn’t get along with most easily, especially not southerners. But I somehow think she’d like you.”

Jon ducked his head, grinning. “I’m glad. But I’m not a southerner.”

“Sure you are.”

“By whose standards, yours?”

“Yes. After all, I did grow up practically as north as one can get. Everyone’s a southerner to me.”

The pattern of this argument seemed bizarrely familiar, and though Jon had no idea why, he found himself laughing. Tormund joined in readily, and soon they were just giggling with each other like children.

“We’re closing up!” a voice cut in. They looked up to see the cafe barista staring at them pointedly. Another worker was already mopping the floors.

It was time to go.

Jon’s stomach dropped. He didn’t want this moment to end.

They stood and threw away their cups. Tormund pulled out a few more bills from his wallet and added them to the tip jar. And then they were walking out of the cafe, out of the museum itself. 

As they walked through the massive old doors, Tormund placed a hand on the small on Jon’s back. For a moment, Jon forgot how to breathe.

The rain had broken and the sun was setting, casting long golden shadows on the museum’s stone steps. Gods, they’d spent  _ hours _ chatting with each other.

Yet Jon didn’t want to leave. He wanted to keep talking to Tormund, learn the details of his life, hear the sound of his laugh, feel the heat of his skin.

Jon took one of Tormund’s hands, pulling him back to lean against a column. “So, I know I’ve wasted most of your day. But would you like to grab a drink with me?”

Tormund’s face fell. “I want to. But I’m supposed to meet a friend who lives in town for dinner. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’m already late.”

Jon dipped his head, embarrassed. “Of course, that’s completely fine. I didn’t want to take up more of your vacation, I know you’ve already spent too much time with-”

A hand was under his chin, lightly tilting Jon’s chin up. He quieted, found himself meeting Tormund’s steady blue eyes. Any embarrassment vanished. 

“But I’m not doing anything tomorrow. And if you’re free, I’d love to spend the day with you.”

The sun glinted in Tormund’s eyes, and Jon smiled. 

“Yes,” he found himself saying. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Tormund’s face lit up.

“Perfect,” he replied. “Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.”

Jon handed his phone over, constantly aware of the feeling of the man next to him. Of his height, his heat.

There was something building between them, some tension Jon couldn’t name. Obviously he’d felt attraction before, he’d had plenty of partners. But this…this felt like warmth and care and a hearth he could always come back to. This felt like  _ home.  _

Jon tried to break the tension, nervous about where his thoughts were leading. He’d known this man less than six hours. He needed to slow down. He needed to slow down  _ a lot. _

So he backed up a bit, tried to keep his smile friendly instead of adoring. “I’ll show you around town. Give you a real local’s tour.” 

Tormund seemed to shake himself a bit as well, moved a bit to add some distance between them. “I’d like that,” he grinned. “It’s always good to have a friend who’s a local.”

An idea occurred to Jon suddenly. “You know, if you like history, I might be able to get you into the old Winterfell excavation site.”

The man looked up suddenly from Jon’s phone. “I thought that wasn’t open for visitors?”

“It’s not, but I have a family connection. I’ll see if I can get us in.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble-”

“No, please, it’s no trouble. I’d love for you to see it.”

Their eyes met again, and suddenly that strange tension returned. “I’d love that too,” Tormund replied, voice almost a whisper.

The warmth of the sun was lighting Tormund’s eyes, and his hair was golden in the light, an Jon could feel the heat between them. It felt the most natural thing in the world to move closer, closer, to capture Tormund’s lips in a kiss. 

It was soft, and perfect. A strong hand was tangled in Jon’s hair, teeth lightly nipping at his lip. There was the excitement, the electricity of a first kiss. But it was also as though they already knew exactly how to meet each other. As if they had already kissed a hundred times before. 

When they broke apart, they simply stared at each other for a moment, trying to catch their breath. Then they smiled sheepishly. 

“I uh...might have gotten a bit carried away,” Tormund began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t usually go that hard on a first kiss.”

“Neither do I,” Jon said, voice still breathless. “But it was nice.”

Tormund’s smile widened into a grin. “It was nice for me too, little crow.”

Jon bit his lip, trying to stop his smile from splitting his face. “I uhh, guess you should be off.”

Tormund’s eyes were steady on him. “Yes, I guess I should.”

He handed Jon his phone back. He could feel the heat of his palm. It was all he could do not to grab the man’s hand, beg him to stay. “Tomorrow then?”

Tormund nodded. “Tomorrow.”

They broke apart from each other, walked in opposite directions. After a few steps, something nagged at Jon, and he turned.

“Hey,” he called, voice echoing across the concrete sidewalk. “What’s “little crow” mean?”

Tormund was a bit far away, but Jon thought he could see confusion cross his features. After a moment, the man just laughed.

“I don’t know!” he called back. “Guess we’ll have to figure it out tomorrow!”

Jon laughed in return and turned back towards home, warmth of the setting sun at his back.


End file.
